rear of the room. âIf you would care to join me, I will take your statement in my office.â
6
Brother Gaspar of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain sat at his desk and contemplated his future. It was not a pleasant task. Thankfully, there was not much of it left. Surely no more than three or four more thousand mornings and as many evenings.
He wore a black robe against the chill that filled the room. The years had drawn him lean and spare. Beneath his cowl, his head was shaved and his skin was sallow from seldom seeing the light of day. He got out at night. All of his order did, but they couldnât be seen during the day because it raised too many questions among the townsfolk.
As leader of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, he did not truly have a future. His mission was to protect and unlock the past. If he succeeded in the first, no one would ever know the monstrous predations his order had allowed to take place three hundred years ago.
But if he succeeded in the second and unlocked the past, made everything right again, his whole life would change. He looked forward to that possibility.
Even at sixty-eight years old, he believed he had a few good years left. It wasnât that he looked forward to getting out into the world. He had renounced all of that when he took his vows. But he had read all the books and manuscripts in his small post.
He longed for the true manuscripts, the ones he had seen as a child in Rome, where heâd been trained in the secrets he had to keep. The documents that told of secret histories and covered holders of power who werenât known to the general masses.
He sighed and his gentle breath nearly extinguished the guttering candles that illuminated the stone cave. The monastery, hidden from sight, was located deep inside the Cévennes Mountains. It wasnât a true edifice built by the hand of men in service to the church. Rather, it was an aberration within the earth that earlier monks had discovered and elaborated on.
On good days, Brother Gaspar thought of the monastery as a gift from God, made expressly for his order. On bad days, he thought of it as a prison.
He sat at his desk and wrote his weekly letter to Bishop Taglio, who guided his moves and provided counsel when needed. Although written with handmade ink, in elegant calligraphy, on paper made by the order, the letter was merely perfunctory. It was merely a chore that occupied his head and his hands for a short time.
After thirty-seven years, since he had taken on the mantle of the leader of the order, Brother Gaspar had begun to have difficulty finding ways to express the situation. Everything is fine and going according to plan. We are still searching for that which was lost.
He kept the references deliberately vague. Enemies didnât quite abound these days as they had three hundred years ago, but they were still out there.
In fact, even a few treasure hunters had joined the pack. Corvin Lesauvage had snooped around for years. Over the past few the man had become extremely aggressive in his search. He had killed two monks who had fallen into his hands, torturing them needlessly because they didnât know anything to assuage his curiosity.
Only Brother Gaspar knew that, and he shuddered to think about falling into Lesauvageâs hands. Of course, he would not. He would die before that happened.
His fellow monks had orders to kill him the instant he fell into someone elseâs custody. Since he never went anywhere alone, and seldom ventured outside the monastery walls, he didnât think he would ever be at risk.
Only the imminent disclosure of the secrets he protected would bring him forth. God willing, he would find the truth of those secrets himself. But, as they had remained hidden for three hundred years, there was little chance of that.
âMaster.â
Startled, Brother Gaspar looked up from his broad table and the letter he had been writing. âYes. Come forward that I
6
Brother Gaspar of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain sat at his desk and contemplated his future. It was not a pleasant task. Thankfully, there was not much of it left. Surely no more than three or four more thousand mornings and as many evenings.
He wore a black robe against the chill that filled the room. The years had drawn him lean and spare. Beneath his cowl, his head was shaved and his skin was sallow from seldom seeing the light of day. He got out at night. All of his order did, but they couldnât be seen during the day because it raised too many questions among the townsfolk.
As leader of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, he did not truly have a future. His mission was to protect and unlock the past. If he succeeded in the first, no one would ever know the monstrous predations his order had allowed to take place three hundred years ago.
But if he succeeded in the second and unlocked the past, made everything right again, his whole life would change. He looked forward to that possibility.
Even at sixty-eight years old, he believed he had a few good years left. It wasnât that he looked forward to getting out into the world. He had renounced all of that when he took his vows. But he had read all the books and manuscripts in his small post.
He longed for the true manuscripts, the ones he had seen as a child in Rome, where heâd been trained in the secrets he had to keep. The documents that told of secret histories and covered holders of power who werenât known to the general masses.
He sighed and his gentle breath nearly extinguished the guttering candles that illuminated the stone cave. The monastery, hidden from sight, was located deep inside the Cévennes Mountains. It wasnât a true edifice built by the hand of men in service to the church. Rather, it was an aberration within the earth that earlier monks had discovered and elaborated on.
On good days, Brother Gaspar thought of the monastery as a gift from God, made expressly for his order. On bad days, he thought of it as a prison.
He sat at his desk and wrote his weekly letter to Bishop Taglio, who guided his moves and provided counsel when needed. Although written with handmade ink, in elegant calligraphy, on paper made by the order, the letter was merely perfunctory. It was merely a chore that occupied his head and his hands for a short time.
After thirty-seven years, since he had taken on the mantle of the leader of the order, Brother Gaspar had begun to have difficulty finding ways to express the situation. Everything is fine and going according to plan. We are still searching for that which was lost.
He kept the references deliberately vague. Enemies didnât quite abound these days as they had three hundred years ago, but they were still out there.
In fact, even a few treasure hunters had joined the pack. Corvin Lesauvage had snooped around for years. Over the past few the man had become extremely aggressive in his search. He had killed two monks who had fallen into his hands, torturing them needlessly because they didnât know anything to assuage his curiosity.
Only Brother Gaspar knew that, and he shuddered to think about falling into Lesauvageâs hands. Of course, he would not. He would die before that happened.
His fellow monks had orders to kill him the instant he fell into someone elseâs custody. Since he never went anywhere alone, and seldom ventured outside the monastery walls, he didnât think he would ever be at risk.
Only the imminent disclosure of the secrets he protected would bring him forth. God willing, he would find the truth of those secrets himself. But, as they had remained hidden for three hundred years, there was little chance of that.
âMaster.â
Startled, Brother Gaspar looked up from his broad table and the letter he had been writing. âYes. Come forward that I
Similar Books
